This We'll Defend
by Tara Laurel
Summary: "The detective wasn't sure when or how it happened..the next thing he could remember was something that, even in the current fog of his mind, he could never forget. A single gunshot. And a single, stifled, yet sharp scream." John's wounds leave him more damaged than Sherlock can imagine. The doctor is trapped in his own mind, a playing field Sherlock is sure he can win on.
1. To Surprise and Impress

**TITLE:** This We'll Defend

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter One/To Surprise and Impress

**RATING:** T (somewhat graphic/violent content I guess)

**A/N:**Okay folks, my first venture into Sherlock fanfiction. I can't tell you how much I was committed to simply storing this idea away in my head. I literally had to force myself to write this as it wouldn't stop scratching away at my brain and now I am suppressing the urge to tuck it away in some locked document for no one to ever read. Now that I have convinced myself to at least give it a go and post it, I have the distinct impulse to go run and hide NOW.

If you started my latest and first Merlin fanfic, you might have read (maybe you didn't because you skip author notes) that I tend to stay FAR AWAY from posting anything outside of my comfort zone. I am by no means an expert in all things Sherlockian, and (winces) am (braces myself) an American (flees). I'm not going to attempt to sound like I am the least bit British. I don't want to offend anyone or anything of the sorts. This is why I shied away from writing for these fandoms. I don't want to come across as obviously American, nor do I want to lay it on too thickly. So, here goes. I just sort of let the story and characters wash over and just, let it come rushing out of that little writer place inside my brain. I'm a little white chick from the suburbs and somehow some people out there like my stories about gangbangers in Detroit and brothers from Tulsa in the 60s. So, maybe, just maybe, I can somehow pull this off. This first chapter doesn't have too much dialogue anyway.

Wow. That's quite the author's note. My apologies.

Please, read, review and enjoy – and review if you don't enjoy it too. I like any kind of feedback, as long as it isn't hateful.

**Chapter One: To Surprise and Impress**

"John! John? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock Holmes didn't like to have to ask questions. He loathed the very notion of confusion, unless it was some precursor to a pleasant puzzle. That was a different stimulant altogether. The rush of adrenaline, the promise of a challenge, the thrill of the metaphorical, yet sometimes physical, chase, and the confidence that he would always, always uncover the answer.

The sensation that was currently plaguing him, though, was something else entirely. Challenging, yes. Enjoyable, no.

Because this wasn't a puzzle or riddle or anything of the sorts.

This was _John._

Of course, Sherlock would admit, solely to himself and never to the other man, John did tend to sometimes be quite the engaging enigma. He often surprised Sherlock in ways the detective never thought someone of average human intellect could. Then again, that was something else Sherlock would never admit to his flatmate; that John Watson was indeed intelligent. Quite so, in fact, that on rare occasions, not only would he surprise Sherlock, but he had also _impressed _the genius.

It was one of the moments that had led to Sherlock's current stumped state.

The consulting detective had deliciously deciphered the killer's last dump site. For each body they found, they were awarded a clue to his next victim, and location. It hadn't taken long for Sherlock to conclude that, for this case, their focus was not to be on the _scene_ of the actual crime and murder, but where the body had been placed afterwards. His locations for disposal were not the typical river or alley. They were quite creative and unique, and as Sherlock had so bluntly and excitedly pointed out, "refreshing". Of course, that one word was met with a very well recognized glare from his flatmate that immediately told Sherlock that his statement had been a little "not good".

After Sherlock had come to the current conclusion of studying the site of abandoned bodies instead of the places of the killings, things had progressed quite quickly. The entire scene was staged, every minute detail bearing immense importance. From the backdrop to the position of the body, it was all an intended message. A snide "catch me if you can" that Sherlock mused arrogantly that the police probably would never have even noticed. Further examination of the previous dump sites, lead to even more bodies that had yet to be discovered.

The last victim had only been moments away from being the criminal's last. The consulting detective had quite literally torn the earlier scene apart and finally pieced together where their murderer would show his sneering face. Between having to explain everything that crossed his mind in a mere minute to those around him in order to rally the troops to the next location and then the actual time it had taken to perform the latter, they had arrived at the posh penthouse's rooftop too late.

The victim - _early forties, housewife, happily married, four children, two dogs, one cat, former office worker, broken leg as a child _– had been moved and placed there for them to find less than ten minute prior. Ten minutes. Performing the math in his head, also calculating the approximate amount of time the killer required to set up his little scene for them, taking into account traffic and possible obstacles, Sherlock easily gathered that, had he not waited, he would have arrived in proper time to catch this criminal.

Not willing to make the same mistake twice – oh, how he hated to repeat himself, even though _technically _it was neither his mistake nor his fault they were late – Sherlock drank in his surroundings silently. He refrained, for once, from callously correcting the others' false findings and assumptions. He didn't even flinch when Sally Donovan suggested that they search the penthouse in full.

_Waste of time_, he thought to himself, tacking on a few colorful insults to the woman's brain power. This killer was meticulous. He planned everything perfectly and would only have brought in the body when the setting for the story around it was ready to be told. The victim was the final piece of the live action puzzle. Having placed the final pawn, he would never have lingered. No, this man was gone, and probably far, already on his way to his next prey.

This murderer was not simply a serial killer, no. This, was a _spree_. One slaughter right after another. They had been chasing his trail for less than 24 hours and already he had racked up more bodies than Scotland Yard had seen in months. And he didn't seem to be tiring. Committing so much carnage should have been tiring. Instead, this man seemed to reflect the detective in that his work acted as a stimulant.

He vaguely remembered Lestrade casting off a comment about how he had hoped "this bastard would just wear out already". Sherlock knew not to put stock in such foolish hope. No, "this bastard" was not going to tire anytime soon. Just as thrilling and as the chase was for Sherlock, it was equally as exhilarating for the criminal.

Knowing this, Sherlock made quick work of the clues granted to him, all without uttering a word.

And this is why, not five minutes later, the mute detective was suddenly sprinting down the street, Scotland Yard's finest still atop the roof, some just only now noting his absence and staring down in shock and suspicion and the man running on the road below. John had been quicker on the uptake and took after his friend. Sherlock, though, had a head start and was already hailing a cab before his blogger had even reached the first floor of the building.

Sherlock had spent a catalogued number of years happily and preferably working alone. Of course, he had demanded an assistant at crime scenes when it came to forensics – and holding things for Sherlock, fetching things for Sherlock… - but was content to pursuing the criminals themselves intellectually and physically on his own. That was, until a certain physician limped into his life.

He had first dragged the doctor – _not dragged, asked, and maybe enticed, but certainly not dragged, because of course, John needed this as much as him, even if he didn't actually exactly _enjoy _the bleaker bits as Sherlock did _– to a crime scene to merely prove a point. John Watson had grown to be much more than a tool to the detective. He was his flatmate, his colleague, his friend. He found himself _preferring _it when the army doctor joined him and was silently put out – though he would never admit it to himself or anyone else for that matter – when John was otherwise engaged with work or anything that prevented him from being at the detective's side during a case. He even sought out and valued the older man's opinion on certain occasions.

So, why then, was he speeding off to a potentially dangerous situation without his faithful companion?

Well, both answers were right there. John _was _his friend. He meant a great deal to the normally detached detective. And it was quite possible that wherever Sherlock was headed was quite dangerous. _Friend _and _danger _were not two words Sherlock cared to juxtapose. Sure, John had been in a myriad of risky situations since first following Sherlock to the pink lady. Yet this was different somehow. Sherlock could feel it. This was not any ordinary, dull killer. This man - _intelligent, resourceful, creative, collected, calculating and most definitely dangerous beyond normal definition _– was not someone Sherlock wanted in even throwing distance of Dr. John Watson.

It had to have happened on this occasion, then, that John had managed to both surprise and impress Sherlock Holmes.

He had never imagined his flatmate to find him, and in doing so, stumble upon the killer as well. Sherlock was absolutely certain that he had not been followed to this location. Therefore, John had figured out the puzzle as well. How the doctor had done so was something Sherlock was itching to ask later.

That is, if there would _be _a later.

With John's current diminishing condition, Sherlock had to wonder how much more time he had with his friend.

The entire ordeal was almost a blur at the moment. Sherlock's sharp mind had of course captured all of it and he would have to replay everything later for proper recollection and analyzing.

Right now, his sole focus was on his frightened and fading flatmate.

Sherlock had indeed found their killer, already halfway through the act of staging his next scene. This time he was quite literally using props as he had chosen a school's auditorium for his next perverted performance. Sherlock had entered discreetly, vaguely wondering how he had already acquired a body in such short time. Scenarios flashed through his brain between a single breath. The killer could have easily preplanned all of these locations and how he was to set them up for the police to find. Already knowing this part of the process in advance, it would not take much time nor effort to simply snatch a victim and have him or her waiting lifeless in the wings. The other option was that he would pluck his prey once the scene was properly set. School may not have been in session at the moment, but Sherlock did recall spotting several vehicles in the parking lot, probably teachers getting ready for the day ahead. He didn't have a spare moment to check the time, but from the sun he had saw while atop the penthouse roof, he guessed that it was an hour or so before classes began for the day. An extra bonus shock value for their killer. Not only would the police have to bear witness to his decorated dump sites, but so would children. John would have been appalled at the idea of submitting young minds to such a horrific sight while Sherlock reminded him that it was far more likely that a teacher or janitor would come upon the scene first.

All of this had scratched the surface of his mind before Sherlock even took another step.

He had had the criminal in his sights, and moments later, in his grasp. The man was no average off the street offender. His fighting skills rivaled his obvious aptitude and even Sherlock Holmes was having difficulty subduing the man.

The detective wasn't positive at what point he had been knocked to the stage floor but wasted no time once regaining a clear head in taking after the fleeing fugitive.

The criminal had had a lengthy head start and was out the doors and making his escape when a blur of motion and some sort of force crashed into him.

Sherlock burst through to meet the struggle, and the morning sun. He squinted and watched as the killer struggled underneath the shadow of the stranger. Blinking, Sherlock quickly was able to replace the blurred image with that of John Watson. The soldier was on top of the serial killer, pinning him to the ground.

The great detective wasn't exactly sure when or how it happened, but the next thing he could clearly remember was something that, even in the current fog of his mind, he could never forget.

A single gunshot.

And a single, stifled, yet sharp scream.

**A/N: **Thought I'd tack this on at the end seeing as my other note was so hideously long! The story title comes from the army's motto: "this we'll defend". The chapter title is from the motto of the LA police department: "to serve and protect".


	2. Sans Peur

**TITLE:** This We'll Defend

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Two/ Sans Peur (Without Fear)

**RATING:** T (somewhat graphic/violent content I guess)

**A/N:**Thanks for the follows guys! I'm honestly surprised anyone likes this. Phew. And thank you to the lovely marylouleach, RedsLover03 & Super Lizard for the review. Sorry it's been so painfully long!

**I know the idea of John being hurt has been done oh so many times, and quite brilliantly so by some wonderful authors. This particular idea is probably something that has been done, but I personally have not come across it as of yet.**

**Chapter Two: Sans Peur (Without Fear)**

_The great detective wasn't exactly sure when or how it happened, the next thing he could clearly remember was something that, even in the current fog of his mind, he could never forget._

_A single gunshot._

_And a single, stifled, yet sharp scream._

"John! John? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock Holmes didn't have _friends. _Just one.

Doctor John Hamish Watson. His flatmate, colleague, his friend, best friend – his brother. The man who had grabbed _Moriarty _from behind while strapped to a _bomb_ to give Sherlock a chance for escape. The man who put up with his mood swings, experiments, body parts in the kitchen, violin playing at all hours of the day and night and everything else that came attached to living with the eccentric detective.

The man, who was currently bleeding out in Sherlock's shaking arms.

It had happened so fast, even Sherlock's sharp mind had yet to properly comprehend it. That part was still locked away in that blasted fog he continually internally cursed. At first he reasoned that the clouded vision and memory was due to the sudden change and contrast from the dark school to the bright daylight bathed outdoors. When the haze neglected to dissolve, the detective chalked it up to some sort of blow on the head he must have received during the scuffle with the criminal.

Those were the only two logical, plausible reasons.

It could not be, and definitely _wasn't _sentiment.

Sherlock Holmes refused to ever let his heart cloud his mind, yet now his emotions seemed to be acting as belligerent blinders.

Not just because Dr. John Watson, his friend, was lying in his lap, shoulder vomiting crimson liquid. No, it was because Captain John Watson, a former soldier, was terrified.

Sherlock had never seen the man's face so disfigured in fright. Panic, confusion, shock, dread – all flashed in succession across those dancing hazel irises. Sherlock had witnessed a plethora of emotions flood those eyes, but never so many, drowning out any resemblance to the man the detective knew. He had watched John in agony before, had been with him after a particularly frightful nightmare, and had seen him ready to take on death.

Now, though, something was so very disturbingly different.

Desperately, Sherlock searched those familiar, yet not so unfamiliar, irises, for something – anything. He could read someone's lunch from their beard, a person's career by their feet and the happiness of a marriage from a wedding ring. An entire life history mapped out. It was the eyes though, that told him the other bits. The sentiment. Sure, the way eyebrows were raised or lowered, how sweat started to bead together, how fast hands began to tremor, all acted as a gateway to one's emotion. But it was still the eyes that held it all. The hopes, fears, pain, joy, lies, everything in two tiny pools of color.

Sherlock could always read John's eyes. When his flatmate said, "It's fine," but his irises told another story. When Sherlock overstepped some boundary at a crime scene or interrogation and caught his friend's glance. The way those blue orbs stormed over to a steely grey. How they lit up when John had first witnessed Sherlock's observational talents. Yes. Sherlock Holmes could always, always, read John Watson's eyes.

Until now.

The clouded eyes that looked up at him from the body of his best friend did not belong to John Watson.

**A/N: **BTW, in case you're wondering, I said in the last chapter that the title "This We'll Defend" is an army motto. I neglected to say that it is the US Army motto. I just thought it fit for this story. Each chapter title will be a different military/police motto from around the world, or a play on words using it, as was the last chapter. This chapter title is from the motto "Sans Peur" (Without Fear) – A&SH, 9rd Highlanders


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